You Tell Strangers

The room is dimly lit. The girl who just impressed you by sipping her hot coffee at a popular cafe asks if you have kids. Previously, he liked the way you won the darts game like he used to do earlier in the day. He half-compliments you for being surprised by your age: 61. And he finds your skepticism amusing regarding the menu's QR code that has to be scanned with a cell phone, focusing on the varieties combined with a ton of toppings and foam art.

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There is even coffee with vegetable flavors.

He wasn't a fan of the menu either. He says he "rarely enjoys anything that makes coffee not coffee."

His question annoyed you, because everything was going smoothly for a fun Thursday night. Except, now you're not sure how to answer. You don't even realize that you're not sure---or rather you're not sure because you realize that it's strange for a guy your age to say "No, I don't have kids."

That was to be expected. The doubts weren't visible on your face, only the years of drinking and construction work were there. You procrastinate by pretending to read the menu from your own cell phone. Still stalling, you point to the lamp on the wall and tell him how hard it is to find a good electrician. He won't know that you're avoiding questions about having kids.

Generally, only a few will be evasive when asked about children. You can remain isolated from anyone who might challenge the stories you tell strangers, and at this point, you start to get the idea of ​​when you have children or lose them. Or how you never had children. Or how they left you. Ungrateful.

You can twist it perfectly to go to his place, which he told you was "at the end of the road". He called you Guardian King, and you found it funny. The perfect nickname.

Like Sri Gala or Tiger. A nickname you created and sometimes wonder if it's still in use.

You expected him to ask about the grandchildren. In fact, it would be easier to find the route again. Exact numbers. You're sure there are only two. But because you don't use the Internet, you don't know about it.

You're stalling again. You ask him if he wants Raja to show him some pointers, just like he showed his kids growing up.

You didn't tell him that part.

You don't let your nine-year-old daughter stay up until 1 a.m. while you explain about the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Pinball Wizard. About Godam and Gundala, The Buta from the Ghost Cave and Mandala from the Snake River.

You continue the conversation by calling it Hot Coffee. He found her charming. He tells you that his only child died in a car accident on May 13, 1998 and you comfort him by saying that it must have been difficult to share that date with his layered ugliness. Your grandson was the witness that Jokowi first drove the Esemka car on January 3 2012. That is the only anecdotal contribution you shared.

He is satisfied with your response.

Later, his apartment smelled half like lemons and half like feta cheese. Half a shelf of coffee with labels from various regional names throughout Indonesia greets you when you open the refrigerator. You will call your second wife in the morning to tell her that you are fixing an electrical problem at the cafe. You will tell him the amount of your fee and this will make him happy. He's easily pleased.

They will sing songs about loss and write stories to guess what you did. Won't be too far off the mark. Very accurate, you think.